


Kings of Kaltis

by Kaltis295AD



Category: The Kings of Summer (2013)
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-11
Updated: 2018-10-11
Packaged: 2019-07-29 15:00:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16266599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaltis295AD/pseuds/Kaltis295AD
Summary: This is a story of a Pictish warrior who struggles with life in general. He is violent, although he knows the difference between right and wrong. He doesn't know how to relate to women or to emotion. This journey opens his eyes to the real world.





	Kings of Kaltis

This is a story of a Pictish warrior who struggles with life in general. He is violent, although he knows the difference between right and wrong. He doesn't know how to relate to women or to emotion. This journey opens his eyes to the real world.

Kings of the Kaltis

Chapter One - The Glen of Allt nan Uamh

The Kaltis warrior sat motionless and alert. He peered intensely into the freezing vista ahead. His view of the spectacular Canisp, Quinag and Beinn Uidhe mountains was breath-taking. He nestled into the warmth of his reindeer furs, leaning slightly backwards, on a winter yellow-lichen covered rock. Sighing happily, he looked around, taking in the majesty of mother nature. His picture of the snow-covered mountains was encompassed by an oval frame of fir tree branches. The scent of Pine and Fir filled the cold air. The clear and pure water of Loch Assynt had frozen over, not that you could see it with its covering of white. It had snowed twice in the last hour, the second heavier than the first.The morning mist started to disappear as the low winter sun began to rise. The virgin snow glistened in infinite beauty, as far as the eye could see. The sparkles looked like thousands of tiny blue sapphire crystals. This was Connarch’s ideal life. This made him happy.

He’d volunteered, along with many of his kinsmen, to guard the northern area of the vast camp. Connarch had become a legend amongst the tribe, his lust for blood renowned. At six foot six inches tall, he was regarded as a giant of a man, feared by many of the other warriors of the tribe. This year’s winter had become a very cold one, he loved it. Although lost in thought he was always alert. He turned his head as he heard the sound of scrambling feet. He knew who it would be. ‘By the Gods, it’s freezing.’ The voice he knew well, spoke from behind. It resonated with an honesty that illustrated his innocence. The boy's white face, with a reddened nose from constant sneezing, appeared with a hot steaming cup. Connarch didn’t care what it would be, he’d drink it. He had been on guard for hours. His young comrade passed him the dirty clay cup. Weak nettle broth had become prevalent amongst the Kaltis tribe in Northern Caladon. The skinny, young and untested lad was called Cam. He dreamed of being a warrior, like this protector of his. Cam felt safe around Connarch, although he knew this prodigy amongst the tribe could be violent beyond imagination. As the north wind howled through the ice-covered trees of the ancient forest, Cam pulled his hooded cape tighter. With his usual inquisitiveness he started asking questions. ‘Why are we here Connarch? Why this place? Why such a large gathering? Why do the Gods need to make it so BLOODY COLD?’. Connarch smiled. He liked the boy, he had known him his whole life. Cam had just reached fourteen years; the right age to learn the fighting ways of the clan. Connarch had promised his cousin Ewan, that he would look after his son. That he would bring back a young warrior of the Fidach Clan. He softly chided, ‘If I had all the answers young Cam, I’d be bloody chieftain. Now scat back and make more broth for the sentries.

Cam, still feeling none the wiser and disappointed in his mentor, returned to the caves in the west of the valley. The caves were high up the hill, and hard to climb even on a summer's day. Now the snow, ice and shale made it even harder. He cursed as his left foot slipped and twisted. It wasn’t serious, but not if you heard Cam. ‘Bloody Athfhinn, so-called Goddess of the hills, show your face bitch, so I can slap you’. All the matriarchal Gods of the Kaltis were cursed by Cam. Usually on a daily basis. He had a pure hatred with every single one of them, much to his mother’s dismay. As Connarch lifted the cup to drink more broth, his strong calloused hands reminded him of his colourful past. His thoughts turned to happier times. As a child, life had been simple, wake up and work the land. At ten years old he had been already larger than his peers. He could lift full buckets of water in each hand and think nothing of it. When it was time to gather fodder for the winter he would work the hoe from dawn till dusk. He would stack the hay and spread the straw. At that moment, a spark of an idea burst into life. He would have the guarding areas covered in straw. That should hopefully stop the cold wet slush invading the guards’ feet.  
The wind blew colder with increasing gusts, he wrapped the furs tighter. His thoughts drifted back to the past. To the mother he never knew. From what he had heard, she was beautiful. Her striking blue eyes and long auburn hair the envy of many of the women. Eithni had been a proud and strong-willed woman of the clan. She had died soon after his birth. Connarch’s face frowned as he pictured his father, who didn’t want to give him a name, his rightful name. There were reasons. He never accepted them, and he never would.

Connorch thought fondly of the clan members who adopted him, the Uradech family. They were placid farmers of the Fidach clan, known as the wood dwellers. They lived and worked the west woodlands of Achnahaird and fished the shores of Altandhu. They were good people and they gave him a good young life. The warm liquid stung his upper lip. His lips were cracked, open and sore. Even his thick brown beard could not protect them from the biting winds. None of this bothered him. He had known the hardships of winter his whole life. Just then, another sad memory of a bitter struggle imbued his wandering mind. His adoptive father had to endure months of pain against the pox. Eddarrnonn had succumbed in agony; the clan healer had said nothing could be done. It was then, Connarch’s initial rage and brutality had shown itself. The healer had been battered black and blue and had almost died himself. Only a year later, his two sisters, Scáthach & Nadbroicc lost their lives, going for a swim. They had only been ten and eight years-old. A strong sea current had swept them out to sea, and they had drowned. His mother Drusticc, his wonderful loving mother, killed herself the day after her daughters’ funerals. At aged nineteen, Connarch felt utterly alone. The crippling mourning for his family and the feeling of helplessness lasted a long time. It was during this time the anger set in, it would remain with him always. Even though nine years had passed since these horrific events, he knew the memories would never leave him. His life would be a warrior’s life or nothing. As Connarch brought back his vigilance, he shook his head. It was a vain attempt to dry the tears that, had unknowingly, fallen down his cheeks. He looked around with his reddened eyes to see if anyone saw him. The tribe knew that snow can burn the eyes, but only people make you cry. He grew mad with himself. ‘Don’t be weak, don’t be pathetic’. He hardened his thoughts towards the enemy.

Their lives had become hard since the invaders arrived. The Kaltis had to learn quickly to survive. The foreign soldiers, with their spears, swords and shields, showed no humanity. They had a very strange language and carried little bronze eagles with them. Word spread quickly for the clans to join as one to protect their very existence. The Cait clan were the best fighters, they trained the tribe to kill men without mercy. Connarch found early on that he liked the destruction of the enemy. He had become skilled and strong during his formative years. ‘Forget farming, this is what he was born for’.

As he looked out over the snowy landscape, Connarch pulled the woollen cowl away from his head, then pulled back his brown unwashed hair that covered his eyes. Directing his gaze across the snow and rocky terrain towards a new sound. He heard the yapping first. Seconds later, he saw the rapid movement of pale silhouettes, he smiled at the frantic scene. White fuzzy shapes jumping around dark shape lying on the ground. The dead animal had been caught and crushed in a landslide. Its lifeless body had been carried, skimming across the Torridonian Sandstone, into the valley near the caves. The ‘Bone Caves’ as they were known to the Cait locals, were also the last resting place of many animals succumbing to the harsh Caladon climate. Connarch’s guard post was up a steep grassy hill, close to an ice-covered stream several yards below. It snaked along the beautiful limestone valley of the Allt nan Uamh, to the Caves that sheltered the large number of tribesmen. The bones of bears, reindeer and wolves that roamed this part of the country, had been removed to make way for the arrival of the highland warriors. No matter how they tried, they could not rid the cave’s smell of death.

He made a deliberate long sniff of the cold, clean air so he could enjoy the crispness in his lungs. From the corner of his eye, he could see the slow awkward ambling shape of the next sentry. Connarch’s unassuming rotund replacement, breathed heavy as he clambered up the hill, he did not look a happy man. Briarch of the Fotla had arrived at Connarch’s post to relieve him of his steadfast duty. ‘Anything to report?’ asked the gruff, stinking southerner, still gulping for air. His wool tunic hadn’t been washed in weeks. It had taken sixteen gruelling days to march to the gathering. They had started just north of the Roman Antonine wall. His home at Loch Venachar, in the lands of the Fotla, lay two hundred miles south of Loch Assynt. Each day had been met with hail, sleet and snow, not to mention the fierce winter winds. Briarch didn’t particularly like the Fidach clan and had no respect for its famous fighter. Connarch shrugged, not caring, ‘Nothing but the white foxes chewing on that dead wolf’. The three-hour stint in the freezing cold had left Connarch rather stiff. He stood up and started to walk with the gait of a sixty-year-old as he began his return journey to the warm Longhouse. He was used to it. In a couple of minutes, he would be back to normal. He just needed to get the blood flowing around the unused muscles. He smiled to himself at the thought of what Briarch would feel like at the end of his duty.

The Longhouses were a revelation. When the few early Vikings started integrating with the clans, they showed the Kaltis how to build them. The language had been a problem for the mellow accented Vikings. The strong, lower toned and guttural voices of the tribe did not fall on their ears well. Fortunately, seeing the hand and body signals were enough for building work. These buildings were sturdier and far bigger than the clans were used to. The walls were made of wooden trunks from the local forest. Sometimes they were made with wonderful irregularities of wattle and daub, with turf and sod to protect them. These houses smelt old and pungent, nothing like the cleaner roundhouses the Fidach clan were used to. They had one distinct advantage at this time of year, they were much warmer inside. Making his way down the old dry river bed to the Creag nan Uamh (crag of the caves), past the winter hardy yellow saxifrage flowers lining the limestone walls, Connarch turned left towards the flatland where the Longhouse stood. As he approached the refuge, snow began to fall again. He squinted his eyes against the biting wind and peered through the falling white flakes. He could just make out the slanted roof, covered with turf and snow, with its central chimney billowing smoke. Soon there would be warmth to greet him.

Inside, the low buttresses proved a daily challenge. Connarch entered the low door and hit his head again; third time in as many days. In pain and annoyance, he cursed loudly, ‘Short arsed Vikings!’. The smell of baking bread, boiling vegetables and meat cooking on the spit, filled his nostrils. He realised how hungry he had become as he salivated like a rabid animal. The sweet aroma started to soften his mood, while he continued to rub at the discomfort on the side of his head. Four women surrounded the large cooking fire. They wore the dress and shawls of the Circinn clan, the plain black and grey check soft woollen dresses travelled down to their ankles. The shawls were made with course wool, dyed dark blue. They stirred the contents of the large pot over the fire whilst talking and working, it never ended. The sound of the flames enveloped Connarch like a snug plaid blanket.The other volunteer guards from the clans, refusing to mix as usual, sat in their insular huddles. Some slept, snoring aloud on make-shift beds, with only straw lying on top. The beds were made of sweet-smelling pine branches, they looked uncomfortable, but they were dry and warm.

A huge stone hearth held the fire in the middle of the house. The welcome heat began to thaw Connarch’s fingers and toes. He sat on a bench next to a wall. This way of living always seemed noisy, dirty and smelly to him. At the other end of the Longhouse the sheep and pigs were being sheltered inside. His thoughts turned to his cousin’s boy in the cave. Poor Cam doesn’t know what he’s missing. One of the few women that made up the vast numbers of tribesmen, brought him a bowl of chopped mutton stew and a lump of bread. As one of the volunteer sentries, Connarch enjoyed the higher status of the longhouse and its benefits. Connarch’s mood had lightened as the warmth of the Longhouse had made him comfortable again. At the back of his mind, he had the same question as Cam. ‘Why the Gathering?’ Normally the King would just send word of his need to the Chieftains. He finished eating his mutton stew and went to find a bed. He found one in the corner, away from the others. As he lay there trying to ignore the smells around him, he thought, ‘This gathering wasn’t more than rare, it was unheard of’. The warmth and full stomach took over his senses and made Connarch feel tired. The Sandman then sprinkled his magical sand into his eyes and Connarch succumbed. He would sleep well and be ready the next day.

Cam would not be so lucky, he declined the offer to guard the great tribe. He chose not to suffer the extreme cold for three hours, four times a day. He certainly did not fancy losing some of his fingers and toes to frostbite; or worse. He endured the cold of the empty caves along with the rest of his kinsmen. Their sinewy hardened bodies coped with most things, this winter wouldn’t be one of them. The Fidach clan alone had lost three warriors through the night, two of them were found frozen where they lay. Another man had been taken by a hungry bear, when he ventured outside in the night to urinate. Cam showed he was smarter than most of them as he knew how to cook and serve. This meant his sleeping area was located next to the cave ‘kitchen’ fire. He didn’t have to endure too much. The wind had all but disappeared the next morning, leaving a peaceful sunny scene that belied the arctic temperature. Through the night, Cam’s cave had suffered no more deaths. That couldn’t be said for the other clans.  
After a hearty breakfast, Connarch left the Longhouse and climbed the steep hill to the caves. He checked every day on his little trainee warrior of the clan. As he neared the first cave, he was forced to stand aside as some of the dead were being removed. ‘Of all the times of year the King could have called a gathering, why now?’ He dismayed, as another body passed him. He knew they would simply be dumped into a large excavated hole at the far end of the camp and burned. The Monks and other Norse holy men would recite their incantations over the bodies, to the various river Gods and Valhalla. Many of the tribe had kinsmen in their midst from the Viking countries. They did not regard themselves as outsiders; and nobody dared insinuate otherwise. Connarch found Cam still sleeping by the warm embers. ‘Lazy little rascal’ he thought. He woke Cam by kicking his backside. ‘Time to get up little one, the King will be addressing us soon’. Cam stirred slowly, he hated mornings. Connarch made sure Cam ate something before they left for the Gathering.

Three days ago, the tribe had started gathering in Inchnadamph. An ancient forest sitting in a valley by the shores of Loch Assynt, a southern part of the Cait lands. The year 295 A.D. and the worst winter in living memory. Even old Anguil, the elder of the tribe, who had lived all over the lands of Calodon for four score and four years, couldn’t remember a harsher time. The vast majority of warriors and holy men of the whole Kaltis nation had arrived. From the northern clans of the Cait, Fidach and Fortriu, to the Southern clans of the Ce, Fotla, Circinn and Fib. Centuries ago, the clans were born from the original Kaltis King Cruithne. He had seven sons. Before his death, he divided the lands of Caladon and named them after his sons. To avoid any conflict between the brothers, Cruithne’s final proclamation stated the seven territories were never to become one. His eldest son Fortrenn, was his heir and favoured son. His brothers did not keep their jealousy hidden. They all knew there would be a reckoning. Cruithne had died around 442 B.C. leaving his son as the ruler of all Caladon. Fortrenn named his land ‘Fortriu’ and proclaimed that all Kings would be born from his blood and his blood only. All the brothers complained bitterly and one by one they vanished; but the clans remained. Fortrenn kept to his father’s dying proclamation, to avoid all-out war with the tribe. The clans would never be joined as one. This had, over time, become one of the most important laws of the tribe; second only to the centuries old ‘Tribe Protection’ law. All clans would come together to protect the tribe, to vanquish a common enemy. 

Chapter Two – The King’s Oration

Connarch and Cam arrived at the rear of the Gathering. They had to be careful as they stepped down the hill through the trees. Lots of bracken and small branches lay on the ground. They would easily grab an ankle and make a warrior look stupid. You couldn’t see them. The bottom of the glen was covered in a thick white blanket, but they lay there; camouflaged. Connarch had twice grabbed Cam as he tripped over nature’s unseen snares. There were hundreds small tree stumps sticking out of the ground; the tribe had been busy. The clearing that had been made, by the butchering of these old and large plants, was huge. Still, the Roundhouses and Longhouses had to be built.

Connarch and Cam started mingling with the Fidach and Fortriu warriors they knew, meeting and greeting old friends. They used the tree stumps as seats. Discussions of families ensued and swapping of stories, boasting about their newest weapons and shields. Most of the tribe metalsmiths had been trying out new hardening methods for sword making. The warriors were keen to show each other the craftmanship of their smiths. The metalsmiths took great pride in their work and the warriors were always grateful. Cam looked at his axe. It had been given to him by his father. It was old but sharp. Connarch saw the boy look forlornly at the dated square head axe. 'Don’t worry laddie, I will get my smithy to make you a new one, or even a proper sword'. Cam’s face lit up. 'Really Connarch, you would do that for me?'. Connarch couldn’t help himself, he replied, “Aye Cam, but he’ll need to make it bigger for all these muscles you are getting”. “Oh, shit on Boderia’s face ya great lummox. Very bloody funny”. Cams curses always made Connarch burst out laughing. On hearing this one, even the surrounding warriors joined the laughter. Cam would come up with so many different ones, Connarch couldn’t keep up.

As Connarch and Cam sat at the back, wrapped well in their furs, there was a sudden quietening through the crowd of twenty-five thousand. A hush of anticipation descended on the tribe. The King had arrived at last. Connarch knew all about the ruler of Caladon. He whispered to Cam, “Be patient. Let’s hear what the royal arsehole has to say, then we can go for a drink; a proper one”. Cam smiled at this. He liked the way the sour wine tasted. It made him feel grown up.  
King Vipoig Albust ruled the clans with an iron fist. Although ruthless, he was popular. His word was trusted, and he exuded integrity. Although, his recent proclamation that he would be succeeded in death, only by his son and heir Canutulachama, had not been well received. None of the clans had supported the decision but none had dared to openly oppose it. Connarch saw the passing of this proclamation as Vipoig’s stab in the back to his royal brother Fiachu; the rightful heir. On the way down from the caves, Connarch had lectured Cam on the recent royal history. He whispered to Cam, “Everyone knows Fiachu is pissed off. That’s because the law has not been upheld”. Cam looked up and said, “Like I give a Dubrona’s arse slap about that shite Fiachu”. Connarch struggled to contain his eye-watering hysterics at this new curse. As they waited for the King to commence. Connarch wondered if the purpose of this gathering was to renounce the proclamation. It would go part way to explaining the reason for all the clans being there. Cam abruptly said to Connarch, “So where’s this King then? What does he look like? How long is this going to..”. Suddenly, a huge hand covered and gripped hard on Cam’s mouth nose and chin. As he turned in much discomfort, he saw the other hand had turned into a fist. He looked warily up towards his mentor. The face said it all, Cam knew to shut up.

Connarch was becoming impatient. He had his guard shift to perform in about an hour. As he looked around the glen, he could see the subtlety of the different colours of the clans. Very little distinguished the hierarchy from the men. This way Chieftains would not be targeted in battle. The King would sometimes use a large penannular brooch to fasten his cloak. Otherwise they all blended in. In the cold mist of the morning, King Vipoig Albust stood on a stump of an old and large pine tree. A giant of a man, who commanded respect without asking. Knowing his clan were the original tribe from which all Royalty were born, Vipoig stood proud in front of the throng. Connarch surveyed the scene carefully. He watched his King come forward. Was it his imagination or did Vipoig look nervous? He appeared to be sweating even in the extreme cold.

The King inhaled a deep breath, “My brothers, my kin, my brave warriors”, he bellowed across the glen to thousands of experienced combatants. “For centuries we have held strong to keep our lands safe and fertile, just how we like our women”. A thunderous roar of laughter and applause resounded approval from his men, the King bowed like a jester, smiling. The rhythmic thumping of swords, axes and spears on the small buckler circular shields commenced. The King commanded their loyalty: he owned the proprietary rights over their land, their sheep, pigs, cattle; their possessions were in a sense his. His disputes involved them, and they had to take part in them, even to the point of laying down their lives. He continued, “A new threat arrives, the Romans have sent more soldiers to defend the wall”. A quiet disgruntled sound carried across the field. “Over 170 years ago”, the King carried on mockingly, “They built their Emperor Hadrian’s little wall, thinking they could keep us out”, a stronger reaction came from the Northern clans. Connarch saw that Vipoig seemed to be glaring at the Southern clans. The King raised his voice even louder, “One Hundred and fifty years ago, the charlatan reign of the non-soldier Antoninus Pius, who had the impudence to build another wall further north, almost reached our northern borders.” The King looked towards his own clan. “We need another Calgacus of the Fotla. He defeated the putrid Pius and showed our strength beyond measure”. Vipoig’s own clan did not let him down when mentioning brave warriors of the past, they banged their shields, with blood curling screams they began to shout, “Vipoig, Vipoig, Vipoig”. The Southern clans looked nervous, their leaders watching the King’s brother Fiachu. He just stood fixed, staring at his brother. Connarch’s gut tightened as he thought ‘Uh, oh, here we go’.

The King raised his right hand. The noise of banging shields and sounds of voices stopped abruptly. All eyes looked at the King, all ears strained to hear his words. ‘Brave Calgacus, the best general gifted to us from the great Southern Fotla clan’. A barrage of yelling and a cacophony of beating weapons on shields deafened the ears once more. The King pressed on, ‘Although defeated at the Mons Graupius, by Julius Agricola of the Roman scum’, Vipoig paused to gauge the faces of the Southern clans, they looked confused. Continuing, Vipoig said ‘Brave beyond comparison, he continued the fight for many years.’ The King stepped down from the stump and made his way to a nearby cart, jumped up and pointed to Breth macButh of the ‘Ce’ and Gocinecht of the ‘Fib’. He shouted across the throng, “There has been TREASON. The Chieftains of the ‘Ce’ and the ‘Fib’ are traitors, bring them before me, NOW!”. 

Connarch and Cam had been standing at the back, bored with the events that had taken place, Connarch knew his next guard duty would be in an hour’s time. He looked forward to being alone with his thoughts. They heard the King shouting ‘Treason’. When warriors banged their shields, they both joined in. Connarch tensed slightly at the word ‘treason’. They had heard what the King had to say, they usually didn’t care. Connarch grew suspicious of the King’s oration. It wouldn’t be an issue, they were the clan foot soldiers at best and fodder for the enemy at worst. Out of the blue, one of the senior Fortriu captains appeared, He grinned at them, ‘Get ready lads, we are about to kick some Ce and Fib arse.’ Slow, deliberate movements began in front of them, as their clan kinsmen started, unhurried movements around the crowd and down towards the King’s location. It was rare, but not unheard of, for clans of the tribe to mete out rough discipline on other clans now and then. Connarch and Cam knew what to do, as all the clan did, they were trained for this. As the pincer movement increased the Fidach were joined by the Cait and the Fortriu. Connarch knew this could be a good bloodletting for the inexperienced Cam and his little square head axe. This tactical manoeuvre had not been used very often, unless the situation called for extreme violence. He grabbed Cam’s hood and tugged him backwards, ‘Breathe slow and sure my little friend, and stick close to me’, he whispered as they moved nearer. Cam looked nervous at first. As they progressed forward Connarch could see he was becoming scared. His whole body was shaking, he touched his axe handle for reassurance. He had trained on leather bags filled with straw and offal, he never imagined this could happen for real. ‘Don’t worry little one, you probably won’t have to use it’, said Connarch. He was Cam’s protector and woe betide anyone’s foolish attempt at hurting him.

After a few minutes they were both at the front of the crowd. They had a perfect view. They could see and hear the King clearly. Connarch viewed the scene with a look of contempt. He could see the King standing on the cart, one hand on the long wooden brake. He noticed there were more of the Fortriu warriors than expected. He wondered the reasoning at this move. ‘What was the King up to?’. Meanwhile, up ahead, Breth macButh and Gocinecht, had dropped their weapons in an instant. They walked forwards slowly, with open hands. They arrived in front of their King and bowed their heads in deference, if only for a second. One of the Chieftains stepped forward to speak, ‘My Lord, I beg of you, what is this accusation you speak of?’, Gocinecht asked. The King turned to look at Breth macButh, with fury in his eyes, macButh dropped to his knees, ‘My King, what have we done to displease you so?’, he begged. ‘I will let my brother explain’, the King said as he looked over the crowd. Fiachu looked astonished at this invitation. As he edged forward, he asked, ‘Explain what? My brother, I have nothing to offer this allegation of treason’. The King looking upwards at the sky in a sarcastic mood, shouted as if to no-one, ‘And I call this fool my brother.’

The Northern clans had moved into position without disturbing the crowd; Vipoig noticed it. Four of the Fortriu captains arrived out of the blue, the leaders of the Ce and Fib were grabbed roughly and pushed to a flat supine position. They were held down, lying in the freezing mud, looking upwards. The Ce and Fib clans, although looking still confused, shouted their anger at the treatment of their Chieftains. Fiachu looked angry, he snapped at Vipoig, ‘Have you lost your mind? What is the meaning of this treatment; of our brothers in arms no less?’ Vipoig had a look of disdain. He turned to face his brother as he said, ‘Address me as your King or face the consequences’. Fiachu recoiled at the order and appeared scared now, he knew more than most the cruelty of his brother. With a nod of his head, the King had summoned the Vanguard of the Fortriu clan. With the greatest of speed, four hundred warriors stood between the monarch and the tribe of the Kaltis. The other Northern clans, who surrounded the whole crowd, now drew their weapons. The Southern clans started to panic and withdrew into the middle, it caused panic and chaos for five minutes or more. When they realised the Northern clans had not moved an inch, the Southerners seemed to calm down. The Northern men just stood staring, silent and menacing. 

King Vipoig had two of the Vanguard bring Fiachu to him, they stood him up against the cart and tied him to it. The King jumped down in a very athletic manner and stood over the two men, who were now pleading for their lives; the crowd had heard the command for the executioner. The King once again addressed the crowd. He seemed to deliberately slow his speech down. No doubt, to make sure they could hear his accusations. He began, ‘My brother and these two Southern bastards have plotted against me, their King, their rightful King.’ He motioned for the executioner to place the blade of the huge axe on the chest of Breth macButh of the clan Ce. The clan of the Ce raised their weapons and shouted in defiance, even in the face of the Northern clans. MacButh’s leather chest plate had been removed earlier, the coldness of the blade made macButh’s bladder release its contents. ‘Please my Lord I’m innocent, I have done nothing wrong, you are my King, my only King, please’, he begged. This made Vipoig look over to the Chieftain of the ‘Fib’, he paused in thought, then said to him, ‘If you, Gocinecht of the ‘Fib’, my old trusted keeper of the holy books and manuscripts tell me the truth, I will only kill macButh of the Ce. I promise I will not kill you’. Gocinecht looked across in despair at the oldest of his friends, his kin, the person he trusted most. With macButh’s eyes pleading, Gocinecht closed his eyes and said, ‘Yes, my Lord, it is true. We plotted to stop your son becoming heir on your death.’ With a nod from his King, the executioner lifted the axe high above his head, as macButh screamed, the axed dropped with such a force it sliced through macButh’s chest to the frozen ground. The same nod went in the direction of the leader of the ‘Fib’, the executioner stepped forward. 

Gocinecht looked at Vipoig and shook his head. With great calmness he said, ‘You call yourself a King. You lied, you piece of shit, you lied.’ The leader of the great tribe held his hand up to pause the executioner. Leaning over the traitor’s face, he smiled a rueful and sarcastic smile as he shouted, ‘I’m not going to kill you, my executioner Nechtan of the most noble Fortriu clan is going to kill you’. That sarcastic remark resulted in much scorn and laughter from the Northerners. As the King stepped aside, Nechtan repeated the action for the second traitor. Strangely, Gocinecht made no sound, but the blade did. The despair of the southern clans grew in stature as they waited for their King’s next move. They looked around in abject fear. Some took solace in each other, whispering then placing hands on their weapons, ready to die for their clan. As Connarch and the rest of his Fidach brothers looked on, he couldn’t help thinking this might turn into a needless bloodbath. He knew, they would need as many of the tribe as possible against the Romans. Still he held his sword pointing at his Southern kinsmen. He looked down at his ward. Cam looked dejected, both arms hanging limp leaving his axe and shield dangling. Connarch said quietly through gritted teeth, ‘Stand ready clansman’. Cam gulped and immediately brought his arms to bear, looking scared once more.

Fiachu turned his head towards his evil brother, ‘That wasn’t a very regal thing to do my Lord, you promised him, and he believed you’, he said with respect, still strapped to the cart. Vipoig walked over and stood very close to his brother. He looked despondent and his eyes seemed sad. He asked, ‘What am I supposed to do Fiachu? I wonder, my only brother, what am I supposed to do?’ Fiachu replied, ‘Do the right and proper thing my Lord, renounce the proclamation, let the tribes trust you again.’ The King had heard enough, he sighed and said to his brother, ‘There has been enough blood spilled today’. He turned around and addressed the tribe once more. ‘My brother has made his case against the proclamation, and I have listened. The argument is sound, I know it has been disagreeable with some, and for that…’. He seemed to wait an age in thought, then added, ‘I apologise’. A distinct relief at the King’s words travelled quickly around the glen, there were shouts of approval and support. Fiachu, relieved at his brother’s discourse to the masses of the clans, breathed easier. The King held his hands up for silence, the tribe obeyed in an instant, ‘I have one more proclamation to make, I will never AGAIN, make promises to traitors.’ Vipoig turned abruptly to his right and carved a sharp knife around his brother’s throat. Connarch and the warriors of the northern tribes stood, weapons drawn, ready to attack. Vipoig had given the order to the Southern clans to disarm. After witnessing their Chieftains executions, they were obviously reluctant. The King then gave a simple ultimatum, ‘Drop your weapons or die today’. 

Galan Erilich was the second son to the chieftain of the Fotla. He strode forward and turned to his kinsmen. ‘You heard our King’s command, obey or I will cut you down myself.’ The Fotla soldiers, obedient, disciplined and hardened by years of fighting the Irish Gaels, stood up at that moment. They banged their short swords once on their shields and marched towards their leader. They halted a short distance from Galan. They saluted their clan Chieftain then began to place their weapons on the ground in front of him. The weapons were piled, regimented by type and size. The rest of the tribe looked on, amazed at this sight, until the last shield had parted from its owner. At this point, some of the clan formed a ceremonial protective circle around their leader. Galan Erilich saluted the King with his empty hand. His men acknowledged the salute by lowering their heads in the recognised submissive form. Vipoig returned the salute and smiled. After taking time to look at the whole tribe, he jumped back on the cart, ‘Thank you Galan’, he shouted, ‘As usual, the Fotla are first to show their courage, before ALL men.’ Galan Erilich knew what to expect. For both the Ce and the Fib, without their clan leaders there could be only one decision. Vipoig had made his decision and he knew Galan would not refuse him. ‘Galan Erilich, second son of Galany, of the Fotla clan, you will take the ‘Ce’ into your family, you will treat them as your own.’ Galan yelled back across the glen, ‘My Lord, we the Fotla are grateful, we will treat them as our own.’ The same happened for the Fib clan, they were subsumed into their Circinn Kaltis family.

There, the two clans would remain, until they assimilated fully with their new brothers and sisters. Then they could look within for a new Chieftain. There would be the usual politics, bribes, arguments and fights until one clansman was put forward as the new leader. This usually took two years.  
The King would have the final say. The reports of the clan’s behaviours, subservience and overall attitudes would be considered. Once all criteria had been met, the new pretenders would swear an oath of allegiance to the Fortriu and their King.

Chapter Three – Shiona of the Circinn.

Back at the Longhouse, the women had finished the chores and were sitting outside. Every day they endured the close stench of animal faeces, stale sweat and blinding smoke from the fire. They allowed the cold and clean fresh air of the highlands to fill their lungs. As the chatter and laughter continued, they wondered where all the men were. Apart from the volunteer guard force, there were no other warriors. One of the younger women got up and stretched. Her slender and lithe body ached from the stress of looking after the tribe guards. This had turned out to be a harsh life. Fortunately for her, it was better than the one she had left. Her name was Shiona. The older women adored her. She would take on some of their chores without being asked. She managed to keep the amorous advances of the guards at bay from all of them. One man had foolishly tried to fondle her, while she stirred the food on the large fire. Shiona turned around fast, with the large wooden ladle also turning at speed, smashed it straight into his face. She then grabbed his dagger, held at his throat until it started bleeding. Shiona then screamed at him and all the others, ‘All the women here are out of bounds. Touch any of us and you’ll die with your cocks in your mouths!’ They were never bothered again.

Shiona Munait, had lived her early life as a low family member of the Circinn clan, as Southern clans go, the Circinn were the most docile and religious. Her father, Dornornauch, had been killed in a drunken fight of honour with Garnaith Bolgh. He was the bad-tempered Chieftain of the warring Northern Cait tribe. After the killing, Bolgh had taken her mother and nine-year-old Shiona into his kinship, as tribe law demanded. When Shiona had bloodied at just 12 years, she had been shunned by Bolgh. She returned to the Circinn clan and became disowned as an ‘Unwanted’. Now, she had turned 20 years old when the great gathering had been announced, Shiona thought to herself, ‘Time to leave’. Straightaway she decided to join the gathering, anything to get away from there, away from the clan that ignored her existence.

She ventured further from the Longhouse and walked towards the glen. In that instant, she stood at a standstill in shock, a Cait warrior appeared from nowhere, painted blue. Shiona screamed and started to run. The warrior held up his hands and shouted, ‘It’s alright, I’m just putting my clan paint on.’ She stopped and turned at once, ‘What?’ Her anger at this frightening intrusion made her act without thinking. She strode forward and punched the Cait so hard he fell onto his backside. She started to laugh at the pitiful young boy, skinnier than a starved cat and smelt worse. He got up with an embarrassed look on his face, ‘I never meant to scare you, it’s just that I’m not allowed to let anyone into the glen.’ Shiona’s laughter subsided as quickly as it came. She grew very nervous and suspicious at the same time. She grabbed the young upstart by his collar and chose her words with circumspect, ‘Answer me. What’s your name, what’s your clan and who said we are not to go to the glen?’. The lad had recovered from Shiona’s attack, he replied, ‘I’m Ini, son of Garnaith Bolgh of the Cait, one of my father’s captains told me not to let anyone near the glen, not at least til’ noon’. Shiona gasped at the name, ‘This is little Ini?’. She couldn’t help but feel stunned to see how tall he had grown. Here was the little eight-year-old son of the hateful Garnaith Bolgh, who killed her father. The young man relaxed and asked, ‘So who are you then?’, he seemed have grown in confidence and a little bit too interested in her now. Shiona had to think and quick. She remembered the handsome and muscular warrior from the Fidach. She smiled back at Ini and said, ‘Hello Ini, I’m Kelta, cousin of Connarch of the Fidach. The name alone, warning enough for the young Cait to retreat. He backed away to the entrance of the glen, thanking the Gods he hadn’t touched her.

As Ini returned to his lone sentry duty, Shiona began to worry, there were never embargos to go anywhere within the tribe, she murmured to herself, ‘whatever is happening, it doesn’t sound good’. The sudden screams of protest from the Southern clans could be heard at the Longhouse, Shiona shuddered at the sound of anguished men. She knew it wasn’t good for the clans or the tribe. Her heart began to race, her mind thinking of Connarch. ‘They’d better not have harmed him’. She had chosen him for a reason. The other women were crying outside the Longhouse, as the noise abated to nothing. The news had not taken long to reach them. Some of the volunteer guard started arriving back for their duties, they looked ashen as they described the killings.


End file.
